The Giant Rubber Band Mishap

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If you know me, then you know that I spend a fair amount of my free time at the gym. It’s not a daily thing, but I’m there at least 3 days a week. I’m comfortable with the machines that I use, know where to find the weights that I like to use, and have my usual areas all picked out.  I go, I warm-up, I workout, and then I stretch and leave.

Recently I’ve been feeling a bit woobly in my right ankle so I decided to add in some ankle strengthening exercises that my physio gave me last year when I destroyed my ankle. But I was being lazy so I decided to do the exercises while laying on the floor. With my eyes closed. While listening to my latest workout playlist.

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I looked kind of like this except the bands weren’t held together. They were further apart.

I’m clearly a pro at ankle exercises with my resistance band so I don’t need to pay attention to what I’m doing because nothing has ever gone wrong in the history of rubber bands ever. Or at least, nothing has ever gone wrong for me…

Or at least nothing had gone wrong for me until the resistance band slipped and  snapped me in my lady garden.

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Do you know what it feels like when you get shot with a rubber band?

Imagine getting cracked in the nose with a rubber band.

Except its bigger and it just shot you in the crotch.

It was basically like an over sized sling shot had snapped me in my lady snapper.

I had been laying on my back with my leg in the air and I was flexing my ankle how my physio had showed me. I was supposed to flex my toes towards me, then away from me, then towards me, and then away. Then I was supposed to flex from right to left and left to right. Except I never got to the part where I flex my toes from the right to the left because the resistance band slipped off my heel and I got cracked in the cooter.

And it sucked. I couldn’t scream because the pain literally took my breath away and all I could do was roll onto my side and curl up into the fetal position while hoping for a quick death. It was like the first time that I got my lady garden waxed, but worse because it was sudden and horrible. It was also worse because I wouldn’t have the satisfaction of having a freshly waxed downtown.

On top of it all, I wound up with a bruise that made sitting awkward for the next week.

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I decided to thread my lady parts

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Looks easy, right? RIGHT?!

I’ve been getting my eyebrows threaded every few weeks for the last 5 or 6 years. Otherwise I tend to grow a uni-brow and wind up with two large caterpillars living on my face. The ladies in the salons where I get my eyebrows threaded make it seem really easy. I go in, sit down, and less than 10 minutes later, I have finely arched brows curving gracefully across my forehead. It’s fairly painless, it’s quick, doesn’t require an appointment usually, and I’m always amazed at how cleaning up my eyebrows a bit totally changes how my face changes.

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Yeah, my eyebrows can kind of like this…

 

The whole process seems really easy! You just zip the thread across where the hairs are and they get flicked off like they never existed there. It’s magical and I’ve never really gotten how it worked, but running some twisted thread across my skin seems like a really easy thing, right?

Right.

This is exactly what I thought a few years ago when I saw a tutorial for threading your own eyebrows. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy! I watched the tutorial a few times, grabbed a spool of purple thread, and practiced the hand motions while watching the video a few more times. Then I practiced a few more times without the video to make sure that I knew what I was doing. I totally knew what I was doing.

Then seconds later I zipped off the very end of my right eyebrow. Not a lot. Just like half a centimeter off the very end where the pointy part of my eyebrow was supposed to be. Just, ZIP!  It was gone and I was stunned. Where the fuck did the end of my eyebrow go? How did it go so quickly? What the fuck just happened?

I zipped off the end of my eyebrow is what happened.

I decided to leave threading my eyebrows to the pros after that. The lesson that I learned that day was that it would be really easy for me to accidentally zip both of my eyebrows off and wind up having to draw on my fine and graceful arches. If you’ve ever met me, like I’ve met me, you’ll know that my artistic skills are highly suspect, so drawing my eyebrows on was a bit ole NOPE.

Then I forgot about this weird skill that I have, but have never used until last week when I saw a random threading tutorial pop-up. This one girl decided to practice threading on her weirdly hairy legs and it seemed to work. She wound up with some weirdly silky limbs that I admired.

This got thinking about threading other parts of my body. I briefly considered my armpits, and while I was admiring my slightly fuzzy underarms I realized that I probably didn’t have the dexterity or flexibility to thread my own pits. Arms? I do have hairy arms. Again, not possible since you need to use both hands for threading. Legs? I’d just shaved. Lady parts?

I mean…

I hadn’t gotten waxed or shaved down there for a couple weeks so things were getting out of control. My lady garden was a lady national forest. I had to shave or get waxed soon anyway, so why not?

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This is what happens when I fall behind on my beauty routine.

Threading is easy, fairly painless, and always leaves the skin under my eyebrows feeling super silky and looking pretty.

It couldn’t hurt to try. In the worst case scenario, I would have to shave my downtown because threading would take too long. That was the only downside I could think of.

So set myself up in the bathroom to chickscape my lady parts. Leg up on the counter, thread in hand, I was ready. I zipped the thread back and forth in the air to practice things to make sure I knew what I was doing, and then I was ready.

I reached down and…

It as like I was trying to yank my soul out through my pubes.

It was like a paper cut. Except instead of on my finger, it was across my unsuspecting cooter.

It was like getting an accidental shock to my bajingo.

It was cruel and unusual is what it was and I immediately regretted it. Why did I think this was a good idea? All I could do was stand awkwardly in my bathroom, with one leg up on the counter, and stare in shock at what I had just done to myself. One lonely, experimental line was zipped across my hoohah, and I didn’t know if I should laugh or try and forget that I’d ever had this idea.

This painful, ridiculous, bad idea.